


The Historical Implications of Crossdressing - A Mission

by Little_White_Lie



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Author projecting his feelings about Bucky Barnes onto the characters, Crossdressing, Emotional Sex, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Mission Fic, Natasha is a dork and Steve is afraid of her, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slight mentions of sexual assault but no one actually gets sexually assaulted, Sneaky Nick Fury, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, The Avengers placing bets on Steve's fucked up life, a chill bartender, a lil bit o' angst, accidental cinderella au, jackass omc, mariokart, nick fury is the fairy godmother, punks in love, re-virginized Bucky, shy bucky, the hatemance of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes's hair, this was supposed to be a pwp i don't know what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_White_Lie/pseuds/Little_White_Lie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I thought we didn’t negotiate,” Steve had snapped at Fury when he brought the case file, irritated beyond belief, as he’d showed up in his bedroom at Stark Tower at three am.<br/>“It’s not even negotiating,” Fury had responded, rolling his eye. “He doesn’t want anything that we can give.”<br/>Steve had snatched the file out of Fury’s hand and turned to switch on his bedside lamp so he could read the damn thing. He’d only gotten a sentence in before he wheeled, face flushing scarlet. “Fury you b-”<br/>He was gone, of course. Steve said some words that no one would’ve dared utter in the 1940s, and tore up the case file. No way, no how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Historical Implications of Crossdressing - A Mission

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbeta'd and thus any mistakes are my own. I do not own the Avengers, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, or my own soul. All of those belong to Marvel. Thank you for reading this, I hope a cute person smiles at you.

_This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done_ , a little voice in the back of his head quipped as he rolled the nylons up his thighs.

Frankly, Steve Rogers had to agree.

This was so, so stupid, he couldn’t even begin to explain how stupid it was, yet somehow, he was actually allowing it to happen.

From an objective standpoint, this was a simple mission. The target’s name was Jean-Pierre Giles, a French computer programmer working in a high profile security company known for partying and sleeping around. He was young, not even thirty yet, but had made his name as another whiz kid from the millennial generation. One week ago, he had come across some… delicate information regarding the current movements of Hydra, which, despite Steve’s efforts, was still going strong.

* * *

 

“I thought we didn’t negotiate,” Steve had snapped at Fury when he brought the case file, irritated beyond belief, as he’d showed up in his bedroom at Stark Tower at three am.

“It’s not even negotiating,” Fury had responded, rolling his eye. “He doesn’t want anything that we can give.”

Steve had snatched the file out of Fury’s hand and turned to switch on his bedside lamp so he could read the damn thing. He’d only gotten a sentence in before he wheeled, face flushing scarlet. “Fury you b-”

He was gone, of course. Steve said some words that no one would’ve dared utter in the 1940s, and tore up the case file. No way, no how.

* * *

 

“Why are you so against it?” Natasha had asked three days before Giles’ deadline.

Sam was attempting to teach Steve to play MarioKart (this is not how steering works in standard automobiles, Wilson) and she was mostly just watching with the occasional mocking comment (Oooh. You managed to miss one of those green shells, go back and try again).

“We don’t negotiate,” Steve had ground out through clenched teeth, before muttering _fuck_ as his Princess Peach motorcyclist plowed into a cow.

“You’re scared,” Nat had chuckled, poking the back of his head. “I’ve seen the guy, Rogers. You could snap him in half.”

“That’s not what I’m freaking out about,” he had muttered under his breath, and Nat had sighed.

* * *

 

“Cap, I’d be jumping at the chance if I were you,” Tony’s voice had been muffled by the mask he was wearing to protect his eyes as he welded a… something.

“Good. Take it. I’m so far from interested, you don’t even know.”

Tony had shaken his head, turning off the welder and pushing the mask up to study Steve. “He didn’t ask for me though, he asked for you.”

Steve’s jaw had tightened. Two days until the deadline. “I didn’t ask for him.”

“Steve.” Tony had pulled off one heavy glove to clap him on the shoulder. “Man the fuck up.”

* * *

 

“Dude,” Clint had said, voice oddly reasonable and calm. “It’s the fucking twenty first century, you’re not gonna get lynched for it.”

“I’ve never-”

“It’s a _dance_ , Cap. That’s all he wants. Not not a ‘candid’ of you two making out in the men’s bathroom, not your anal v-card, not a porno, just one dance.”

* * *

 

It had reached the point where either his teammates started referring to him as, “That homophobic, outdated asshole,” or he agreed to be another notch in Giles’ bedpost. Of course, Fury had made it clear that he didn’t have to sleep with the guy, that all Giles was getting from Captain America was a dance at a party with no reporters, but he still felt like…

He stood, looking in the mirror.

He felt like a whore.

When he’d been growing up, he’d occasionally seen boys dressed as dames, waiting in back alleys behind certain bars for rich Manhattan boys who didn’t fear God. Steve had been sickened by them, because he knew none of them wanted it, they were all just fighting to stay alive, too weak to work on the docks.

Steve had feared them, because he knew he’d have to fight to stay alive, that he was too weak for the docks.

It had never come to that. Bucky had worked his tail off to make enough money that Steve never had to put on a dress, never had to bat his eyelashes at strange men, but it had been a near thing.

If Bucky saw him now…

* * *

 

He hadn’t understood why Giles had wanted this. Sure, Steve knew he was a ‘specimen’, but Steve doubted a man with his shoulders really would look that great in a dress.

“It’s just his thing,” Bruce had muttered distractedly, more focused on whatever he was looking at in his microscope than Steve standing in the kitchen, glaring at the dry cleaning bag from Giles that Fury had sent up.  

“How do you know it’s ‘his thing’?”

“I read the case file,” Bruce twiddled a dial a little shakily, and Steve knew that tell, he’d made the mistake of playing poker with him, which had ended with the entire kitchen in ruins.

“Why did you read it?”

“For safety rea-”

“ _Banner_.” He said it softly, in case the Hulk got riled up and destroyed Bruce’s very expensive looking microscope.

“Tonyhasabetonifyou’llsleepwithhimI’msorryI’mbettingnotifthathelps.”

Steve had stomped out, intent on killing Stark, but the coward had hid himself in the panic room, and Javis wouldn’t open the door no matter how non-threatening Steve had tried to sound.

* * *

 

The wig was short and curly, the way the dames had worn them when he was a kid. It was as if Giles had known what the woman’s clothes meant to him, even if the rest of his team couldn’t figure it out.

He slipped on the bloomers, shorter than what gals had worn in his time, feeling humiliated. If he didn’t have to sleep with the man, he wondered, why was he being regulated right down to his underthings?

The petticoat had three layers, which he needed to give the illusion of hips. Over that he pulled on a white silk slip, fancier than any girl he’d ever known could afford.

Once, when Bucky came home stinking of whisky and sex, he’d confided that the reason girls wore so many layers was that they just loved getting unwrapped like a present. Steve didn’t feel like a present, he felt like sewage wrapped in silk.

He wished he could stop thinking of Bucky, who would be so disappointed, especially when he tugged on the dress proper.

Giles had a twisted sense of humor, that was for sure. Steve turned away from the mirror as he pulled it on, not wanting to see. It was a little longer that he remembered them being, mid thigh rather than barely covering his ass, but it was the same dress. Full red and white striped skirt, red sash, blue halter top with stars on the lapels. It was the dress his backup girls had worn a million years ago, when he was punching Hitler in the face every night. Giles had even been kind enough to provide the little blue peaked cap, but there was no way in hell Steve was putting that thing on.

There was a soft knock on his door and he turned to face it, eyes cast downward, face burning. Natasha walked in and, as much as he was sure she wanted to, she didn’t laugh.

What she did do was say, “Jesus _fuck_. What a _dick_.”

That made him feel better. A little.

“I don’t want to do this,” he muttered to his stocking clad feet. “I look like a fucking fairy.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nat’s posture go stiff. “I hope you mean the little flying folks, and not the derogatory slang term for a gay man.”

If the serum had given him laser eyes, he would’ve drilled a hole through the floor to escape. Nat didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand; she was a twenty first century gal through and through.

“Nat,” he whispered, shaking his head, clenching his fists. “I _don’t_ want to do this.”

“Yeah well tough luck, soldier,” she snapped, eyes blazing. She pushed him down onto his bed, pulling out a tiny black pouch with ‘NATALIA’S MAKEUP, DO NOT TOUCH (THAT MEANS YOU, CLINT, GET YOUR OWN)’ written in what looked like glitter glue. Steve couldn’t help chuckling. For someone so scary, she could be a such a dork. “It’s a good thing you’re already pretty, or this would look totally stupid.”

“It _does_ look st-”

“Shut up,” she snapped, and her glare was enough to make him want to straighten and salute with a proper ‘yes’m'. He somehow managed to stay silent and stoic as she painted his face, laying on layers and layers of powers and ointments.

 _Whore_ , a malicious, whispery voice murmured in his head. _She’s making you a whore._

He stared at the wall, trying to ignore the voice. This was a mission. A mission. He was an Avengers agent, he had to deal with discomfort, no matter what form it came in. This was the fucking twenty first century; men wore dresses all of the time. They had stopped a team of ultra-conservative super villains from attacking a pride parade full of men in dresses and women in suits barely two months ago.

It was supposed to be okay, but it didn’t feel that way.

_Whore._

Nat finished with a smear of violently red lipstick, the shade showgirls wore. He was too ashamed to ask for a different color. He stared at his hands, trying not to blink because the mascara was a tacky texture that made his lashes stick together uncomfortably. He refused to look in the mirror, didn’t think he’d be able to look into anything even remotely reflective tonight without falling into pieces.

Nat may have needed to read up on her historical records of homosexuality, but she could at least read _him_ like a fucking book. She didn’t say anything as she packed up her dorky little black bag, simply kissed him on the forehead, right where the bangs of the wig ended, and walked out.

* * *

 

The one good thing about the outfit? He didn’t have to wear heels. Giles had sent them, of course: the shiny silver ones his showgirls had worn, but someone with a big heart and a passing understanding of Things That Grown Men Weighing Over Two Hundred Pounds Can Fight In Should the Need Arise had switched those out with soft silver flats. He still wished for combat boots, but at least he wouldn’t be teetering around like a drunken sailor if things went sour.

He had somehow managed to make it down to the ground floor of Avengers Tower without being seen by anyone else on his team (though he had no doubt Tony would pull up the security footage and play it the next time he got to pick what they watched on movie night), and was now seated in the comfortable interior of one of Stark’s cars. In the front seat, Tony’s chauffeur, Happy, occasionally glanced at him through the rearview mirror, eyebrows dangerously close to his receding hairline. Steve self-consciously tugged on his skirt, wondering if his flush was visible under all of the makeup. This whole thing was a disaster, and if already it was this bad…

Happy parked the car in front of a large, stylish Manhattan apartment complex. Through the walls of windows on the penthouse floor, Steve’s enhanced eyesight could just barely make out the shapes of beautiful, fashionable people drinking and dancing.

He felt like something dirty and cheap, a bit of easy entertainment for the rich and powerful. He wasn’t Captain America in that moment, he was Steve Rogers, a sick, poor kid from Brooklyn who had nothing going for him but blue eyes and a big mouth.

He got out of the car on shaky legs, infinitely grateful for that sensible person who had given him flats. _This was a mission,_ he reminded himself, head held high, eyes straight forward. _Lives may hinge on if you can smile and dance in a dress_ , he mentally continued, walking through the lobby to the elevator. He pressed the penthouse button, staring blankly at the numbers over the doors as they got higher and higher. _Man up and take it like a girl, Rogers._  

He walked into the party like some gross parody of Cinderella. All eyes were on him as he entered, whispers followed him like the wake of a boat.

The penthouse was colossal and elegant, full of artwork and soft light from a crystal chandelier. Though the furniture was sleek and modern, Giles seemed to have pulled out all the stops to make Steve feel “at home”.

All the guests, at least fifty of them, were dressed like they were going to the dance hall in 1940. It was surreal; it made Steve’s head hurt. There was a brass band in the corner, and in the middle of the room there were people swing dancing. Steve couldn’t see Giles, but he had a feeling that when he did he was going to feel less than inclined to bat his eyes and dance. He was leaning little more towards the ‘punch him until he stops breathing’ side of the spectrum.

He tugged self-consciously on the hem of the too too _too_ short skirt, eyes narrowed for any sight of the target. _Man up, Rogers_ , he reminded himself. _Dance for a song then get the hell out._

Still no sign of Giles. He was irritated beyond belief. A waiter or caterer of some kind walked by with a tray of champagne, and Steve really, really wished he could get drunk. He grabbed a glass anyway, because he’d always liked the taste, but its path to his mouth was halted when he remembered the look Nat had given him when he tried to wipe away his lipstick. She wasn’t there of course, but the part of him that was still scared of her felt like she’d know if he got a circle of red on a champagne flute.

Out of the corner of his eye, barely recognized by anything but his subconscious, he noticed that the waiter, a tall man with his long hair tied into a ponytail at the base of his skull (a horrible look, really), had paused in his rounds. He was standing right in front of the windows, which reflected the party behind them, and there was a prickling at the base of Steve’s neck almost like he was being wa-

“There you are, _Captain_ ,” murmured a soft voice, almost directly in his ear, and he whirled, hand automatically reaching back for a shield that, of course, wasn’t there.

The man in front of him was tall, taller even than himself, with blond waves of hair like something out of a renaissance painting and full, pouty pink lips with a little wisp of mustache over them. He wore an impeccably tailored white suit, which showed off his lean but muscular build. Steve supposed he had the sort of face that might be likened to an angel, but really all he saw was a spoiled rich boy with far too much cash to waste on hair product.

“Here _I_ am?” Steve had to fight to keep the malice out of his voice. “I’ve been wandering around looking for you in this… insult of a dress at this insult of a party and you act like I’m _tardy_?”

Giles smiled in a way that made Steve feel like someone was reaching through his stomach and very slowly pulling out his intestines. “Mmm… Feisty. Though what should I have expected from the legendary Captain America?”

“Bite me,” Steve snapped, diplomacy thrown to the wind as his cheeks colored furiously.

Giles, to Steve’s shock and disgust, leaned in and nipped at his jaw. The action was so unexpected his brain didn’t even have the time to tell the rest of him to pull away, maybe slap him.

Giles chuckled, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something delicious. “Seems I’ve made you speechless. Luckily, you don’t need to talk to dance.” He held out his arm, like a gentleman in a silent film, ridiculously exaggerated.

Steve ground his teeth, clenching his fists. This party was full of civilians, Giles probably had guards anywhere, he was in a fucking _dress_ with no shield and he had no idea where the information he needed might be stored. This was so _stupid_.

_Man up and dance. Lives may be at stake._

He stared at a spot over Giles’ shoulder, mentally counting to ten as he took his arm and let him lead him to the dance floor. Giles nodded to the band, who stopped the song they were currently playing, a brassy, fast paced tune, and started up something slow and sweet, like a waltz.

Giles turned to face him and placed one hand on his hip, clasping his hand gently. Steve swallowed down acidic bile. Of course Giles would be leading. Giles seemed to be intent on systematically stripping away even strip of masculinity and security he had gained, turning him back into the sick, skinny boy who had to find some way to eat.

“You get one song,” he growled, letting himself be lead around the dancefloor like a show dog. “And then I get my information, and you piss off back to whatever cesspool you crawled out of.”

Giles’ eyes widened a little, then he shook his head, tut-tutting. “I think I may be disinclined to share what I have if you don’t make my one song pleasant, Captain.”

Steve glared. He was feeling rather _disinclined_ to let this scum live, but they wanted this to be painless. Diplomacy. They were trying solving problems in a way that wasn’t just punching everyone in the face after Insight.

“I’ll do my best,” he managed.

“Lovely.” Giles practically purred, like a cat who got the cream.

For a few moments they danced in silence, then Steve felt the hand on his waist falling a little lower.

“Hmm… are you wearing _everything_ I sent you?” Giles whispered in his ear.

Steve was going to throw up, he was shaking with an irrational, primordial fear that stemmed from when he was the little guy, from when he couldn’t do anything if a man approached him like this.

It was the same fear he had felt out late one chilly night in 1938, not paying attention on an evening walk and ending up in the exact wrong place. The man who had come up behind him had been big, stinking of manual labor and moonshine. Steve had been so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed him until he was backed into an alley with no way out.

The man had towered over him, trapping him between the damp brick wall and his meaty form.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here?” he had slurred, rancid breath washing over Steve like a tidal wave.

“I-” Steve had always been the one with a snappy retort, the one who threw the first punch in a fight, but in his moment he was so terrified, so full of overwhelming panic because he knew this man hadn’t cornered him to get in a fight.

The man had leaned in, thick, slug-like tongue darting over thin, cracked lips, and Steve had let out a pathetic little whimper that made him unpleasantly hot and ashamed whenever he thought of it.

The fleshy sound of fist hitting skull hadn’t been prefaced by Bucky’s usual sarcastic drawl for the first time in Steve’s memory. The man had crumpled, weight nearly crushing Steve before he managed to get out from under him. 

He’d never seen Bucky so _mad_. Bucky didn’t get mad like most people; he didn’t rage and scream but rather stood, stiffer than marble and just as pale, clenched and coiled like a spring.

He hadn’t known how Bucky had found him, maybe he just had a ‘Steve Is Doing Something Stupid’ sense, and he hadn’t asked. The next day they acted like the whole thing had never happened.

Now, shamefully, with Giles groping his ass, Steve wished he had Bucky back. He didn't feel like Captain America, he was Steve Rogers and even if his pride would never let him admit it, he needed his best friend here.

The music slowed to a gentle stop, but Giles seemed intent on not letting go. It was starting to look like the only way that hand was leaving his ass was if it was broken. Steve was moving to crush the hand that was sitting where it most certainly invited with extreme prejudice when there was a soft cough behind him.

Giles’ hands fell away like an electric charge had emitted from Steve. An untraceable accent murmured directly in Steve's ear, “May I have the next dance?”

Giles smiled, though there was something off in his eyes that Steve didn’t like. “Eh… of course. Thank you for my song, Captain. I’ll be back in a moment with those... things you wanted.”

He beat a quick retreat, and Steve saw a few party goers and waiters subtly trail after him, bodyguards in disguise, no doubt.

“Thank you,” he sighed, completely genuine, turning to see the man who had rescued him from the need for violence. “I was afraid I’d have to…”

He stopped dead, mouth hanging open in an almost comical manner.

“Have to what?” the man answered monotonously, the only thing showing that he was actually human under all of that blankness the slightest furrowing of his brows.

The Soldier.  

_Bucky._

Steve’s eyes swept over him, taking in his appearance. He was in one of the plain tuxedos worn by the party waiters, and Steve almost kicked himself when he noticed the hair, tied into a long (and ugly) ponytail. The waiter from before, how had he not noticed…?

Bucky’s frown was deepening. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Shifted a little. The blankness was cracking like an eggshell and underneath was something… something new.

He was stronger, maybe even taller than the Bucky he’d known during the war, but since DC the gaunt lines of his face seemed to have softened a little. A smile would fit his face now. His expressions were not the clear words of the explosive, open book he had once been, but neither was he dead eyed and fogged.

He was something not Bucky and not the Soldier. Something in between, a mix of the familiar and unfamiliar. 

Obviously, his silence had stretched out too long, and Bucky’s hand shot out. “James,” he said, more a command than an introduction, and Steve felt something inside him crack. _James._

James, who either couldn’t remember him or was simply pretending. Or maybe couldn’t recognize him in the dress.

He tugged on the hem, feeling his cheeks heat. He could never let Bucky see him like this, not the man who kept him from those back alleys that smelled of piss and sex, but maybe James…

Maybe James was okay.

“Ste-” he paused. This was new, this was _introductions_. This person was not Bucky and not the crazy and brainwashed Soldier, this person was something new, and he was truly meeting him for the first time... again. “Stevie. Call me Stevie It’s what my best friend calls me.” He’d hated the name Stevie, but Bucky had loved it fiercely. It was his nickname for when he was happy and warm and comfortable.

Bucky blinked, then something like a blush colored the bit of neck visible under all of that hair (which Steve _certainly_ wasn’t imagining taking a pair of scissors to). “ _Stevie_. Well… would you care to dance?”

“...I thought you’d never ask,” he breathed finally. Bucky was right here, at least for this moment, and if Steve was going to spend that moment dancing, he was more than okay with that.

Giles’ dull waltz had ended the second he left the room, replaced once more by the broad sounds of big band.

Bucky had been an incredible dancer. He used to guide dames across the dancehall floors like gravity was as much of a myth as Santa Claus or the Boogie Man, tossing them into the air and moving his feet like he was born to do nothing else. Steve used to watch him enviously, wishing he had even a third of his skill.

But this new Bucky took Steve’s right hand a little awkwardly, set his left hand (even covered by a glove Steve could feel its unnatural machine-ness) too high on his hip, like he was afraid of accidentally straying too low. He started moving a little off tempo, paused, tried again. He stepped on Steve’s foot and muttered a word in Russian that Steve recognized as one of Nat’s favorite swears. He didn’t look at Steve’s face, focusing instead on his aborted attempts at the fox-trot.

Steve honestly found the whole thing unbelievably endearing. It was so _new_. Not Bucky and not the Soldier but _James_ , who couldn’t dance but obviously wanted to.

“Hey,” Steve murmured, smiling softly. “Want me to lead?”

Bucky glanced up at him, something not quite relief in his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered back. A lock of hair had fallen out of his ponytail into his eyes and, without thinking, Steve reached up to tuck it behind his ear.

Steve lead the dance, though even after the serum he still had two left feet. He stumbled within a few seconds and Bucky barked out a laugh. Steve didn’t know who was more surprised by the sound, him or Bucky, whose eyes widened a little. His cheeks flushed, and he stared at the ground.

“No,” Steve said, louder than he meant to. “No. I like your laugh.”

He did. It was another new thing. It wasn’t Bucky’s laugh, full and round and unashamed, more like that hoarse rasp he got when he was sick. It made something inside of Steve swell protectively.  

“Oh,” Bucky bit his lip. Shyness. Another new thing.

Steve laughed quietly, ducking his head a little so that Bucky had to look at him. “I think we’re taking this too seriously.”

“...Yeah?” Bucky met his eyes, and a not-quite smirk flickered over his mouth. “How should we be taking it then?”

In answer Steve held him tighter, starting to spin and rock completely off tempo, the only music the single soaring note in his heart singing ' _Bucky’._

Bucky laughed again, still raspy but louder, and every second growing more bold. Steve felt like he was flying.

When the song ended they both had sore toes and were breathless and red with laughter. Bucky’s eyes were bright, clear, and he was looking at Steve in a way that made all the air vanish from the room.

“St-”

“ _THERE_!” Giles’ voice shattered the moment like a baseball through a window. “That’s him, the _Winter Soldier_!”

Steve wheeled and swore at the top of his lungs. Giles was standing behind a line of heavily armed, very mean looking waiters and party goers. He reached back for the shield but, oh right, he was in a _fucking dress_.

He was going to kill Fury when he got out of this.

There was no way this wasn’t going to find itself to YouTube.

“B- James. Stay behind me.”

“Like hell I will,” Bucky growled, and Steve glanced over to see him crouching, battle ready, a long and wicked looking knife in his hand. His face was ghostly pale, and there there something broken in his eyes.

Steve swallowed, then cracked his neck. He was going to kill Giles with his bare hands. Bucky was trying to go straight, and here this asshole was reminding him of the past he had somehow managed to escape from.

“Well then?” He snapped, raising his fists. “You want him? Come and get him.”

The real guests scattered as the room exploded into a catalyst of violence. Steve dodged a knife directed at his head, ducked under the arm holding it, broke it with a satisfying crack, took the knife, threw it as hard as he could at the man who had Bucky in a choke hold. Bucky threw him into two oncoming attackers, jumped over another, landed feet first with a crunch on the man with a gun pointed at Steve’s head. He tossed the gun and Steve caught it. Pop, down went a man with a machete. Pop pop pop, three more.

Beside him Bucky was a blur, taking down attackers before Steve even saw them. He tried to ignore the way Bucky was taking kill shots rather than aiming to simply decapacitate. He could deal with that later, when they weren’t fighting for their lives.  

He didn’t think he should have been relishing this fight, but having Bucky with him, on his side, taking down baddies like the good ol’ days… it felt like gaining back his arm.

...Which was probably a comparison in bad taste, now that he thought about it.

Finally Steve drove a bare foot (he’d lost one of the delicate little flats sometime during the fight) into the last guard’s sternum, sending him stumbling onto the point of a machete that Bucky didn’t look like he was planning to let go of anytime soon. 

The man toppled to the space between Steve and Bucky. For a moment they stood there in the middle of the carnage, breathing returning to normal. There was a ferality in Bucky’s eyes, and Steve shivered with something unnamable as he took in his dress, ripped and stained with blood and gunpowder. Steve wondered if he still looked like a whore, or something else. Something cheaper, with even less respect.   

Unbidden, a thought floated to the forefront of this mind that he wouldn’t mind being seen that way, if it was Bucky.

There was the softest sound of expensive Italian shoes on marble and as one Steve and Bucky whirled. Giles made a sound like a rat when the trap snapped around it. His white suit was still pristine, and that made Steve hate him even more.

“You have information that I want,” spat a voice, and it took Steve a second to realize it was Bucky, not himself.

Well... _obviously_ he hadn’t been there for just a few bucks working as a waiter.

For a moment, Giles looked like he was going to refuse, say something stupid and brave like ‘you’ll have to kill me first’, but then his too-pretty face crumpled and he pulled a tiny thumb drive out of his pocket.  

“You’re monsters, both of you. You’ll burn in-”

Steve punched him in the nose and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes. “That. Felt ridiculously good.”

Bucky knelt in front of Giles, all animalistic grace. “Give it.”

“ _‘E broke m’ nose,_ ” Giles whined. Bucky rose his left fist with a sound of gears whirring and Giles squeaked in fear, thrusting out the flash drive. Bucky smirked with too many teeth.

The voice in Steve’s head that sounded like Natasha was yelling at the top of its lungs, and Steve tried to brush it away like an irritating fly. Bucky was there. He and Bucky had completed a mission together. He and Bucky were-

Sirens. Blue flashing lights from below, in front of the building.

He and Bucky were standing in a pile of either dead or dying men.

YOU IDIOT, the Nat voice yelled. HE’S A FUGITIVE.

Oh. _Right._

“Fire escape,” he barked, but Bucky was already headed to the back of the apartment. Even new Bucky could read his mind. They were thirty floors up and the fire escape wasn’t exactly stable, but they rocketed down it, jumping rusting patches and racing each other to the bottom. They jumped the last ten feet and collided with the ground at a run. They didn’t stop until they hit Brooklyn, like they both had magnets inside of their chests pulling them straight home. They finally started in an alley behind a sleepy bar from which the last few patrons were saying their goodnights.

They looked like maniacs; Steve with makeup streaked over his face like warpaint in a ripped up dress and only one shoe, Bucky’s ponytail undone, all of that ridiculous hair drifting around his face like a storm cloud, waiter’s suit held together by a few threads, pupils blown in wild eyes.

For a moment they stared at each other. That electricity from before was back, zapping between them with the power of a million volts. It was like the moments before Steve had been injected with the serum, a moment tingling with so much possibility it was nearly stifling.

Then, Bucky pulled something shiny and silver out from under his suit coat.

“You forgot this,” he whispered into the smoky air. The left half of his face was cast in shadows by the flickering street light at the mouth of the alley.

“...You _dork,_ ” he breathed, staring at the battered shoe.

Bucky didn’t even react, simply knelt down in front of him in the grime of the alley and guided his foot into the stupid little flat.

Steve shook his head, feeling tears welling up. He was no Cinderella, but he sure as hell had no problem having Bucky as his Prince Charming.  

“Do you…” Bucky’s voice came out as nothing but a strained croak. He coughed. Started again. “Do you wanna… get a drink?” He jerked his thumb back at the sleepy bar.

Steve smiled so big it actually hurt. “I can’t get drunk,” he admitted.

“Me either.” Bucky smirked a little, and Steve’s heart bu-bumped. Another new thing. Finding the unfamiliar traits was like the best kind of treasure hunt.

Bucky clambered to his feet, then offered his arm. Like a gentleman in a silent movie, all ridiculous exaggeration. Steve took it happily, letting himself be lead to the dor.

If the bartender was startled by the sudden appearance of Captain America in a dress and the criminal whose face had been plastered over the news since the best kept secrets in the world had been dumped onto the internet showing up in his establishment at two am, he didn’t show it. He gave them their beers when they asked for them, then started cleaning up around them.

They talked.

 _James_ and _Stevie_ talked.

They talked about Giles, about the fight. They talked about the beer and the state of their clothes. They talked about rude jokes and music and mixed martial arts. They talked about war and life and death and love.

They didn’t talk about Captain America or Bucky Barnes or the time before they both ended up frozen. That wasn’t important.

They were James and Stevie, two strangers thrust together through an unlikely series of events.

They were James and Stevie, having a drink or ten at two- no three- in the morning.

They were James and Stevie, two men feeling the both the placebo effects of alcohol and the very real effects of a mutual attraction.

Neither of them voiced the need to leave, they simply stood as a single unit. Steve paid the bartender about four times what their drinks had cost and Bucky helped him take the night’s trash out to the dumpster out back. The bartender locked up behind them, and they started walking.

It was just starting to get chilly at nights again, summer was starting to bleed into fall, and Steve shivered without thinking. The next thing he knew the remains of Bucky’s suit coat were around his shoulders. He paused for a second, falling behind in his surprise. Without the extra cover Bucky’s arm glinted like quicksilver in the nightlights of the city.

Steve pulled the coat tighter around himself, breathing in the scent as he caught up. He wanted to cry when he recognized the smells of the exact same brands of shaving cream and bar soap that Bucky had used in the forties. Some things weren’t new, not new at all.

They stopped in front of a mean looking apartment complex, and Steve glanced up with a little bit of trepidation. This couldn’t be-

“This is me,” Bucky coughed, scuffing his shoe. He looked like a fifteen year old at the end of a school dance whose mom was waiting out in the car.

“Oh.” The moment felt just like that awkward moment at the end of a date where it's uncertain if it's okay to lean in for a kiss.

“Do you wanna… have a cup of coffee before you go… wherever you go?” Bucky seemed fascinated by a little piece of gravel next to his right foot.

Cup of coffee. Steve was ninety five, not dead, he knew exactly what a 'cup of coffee' meant. 

At least at the end of a date.

Was this a date?

“I’d love to,” he whispered, moving a step closer. Bucky’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

He took Steve’s hand, leading him up to a one bedroom apartment. To say the place was cluttered would be an understatement in the extreme. It was a pigsty. There seemed to only be three rooms: a kitchen/livingroom, a bathroom, and a closed door that had to lead to the bedroom. The main room was scattered with various lethal weaponry, Chinese takeout boxes, and case files. Across the wall was a collage of… what like like Hydra movements, notes written in cluttered Russian. Steve’s eyes flicked over it; he couldn’t read the notes, but it looked like a hell of a lot more information than they had. If he could get Bucky to work with his team…

“How do you take it?” Bucky called softly, breaking Steve out of his revelry. Steve turned and- God bless him- Bucky was _actually_ making coffee.

He smiled a little, walking up behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist, pressing his face to the space between his shoulderblades. Bucky went stiffer than a board and there was that soft sound of his arm priming itself, but Steve didn’t let go. He trailed his hands over Bucky’s stomach in a straight line right between his belly button and the bottom of his ribs. He’d always had a little ticklish spot there, and Steve grinned when he shivered.

“Maybe we could save the coffee for later?” he whispered, letting his lips brush over a bit of skin exposed by his ripped up shirt.

“Later when?” Bucky’s voice shook a little.

“That’s up to you.”

Bucky let out a long breath, then turned in Steve’s arms. He didn’t look him in the eye as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders. They were so close Steve could feel his heart beating.

“I’ve never… I’ve never done this before,” Bucky murmured shyly, and Steve frowned. Of course Bucky had done this before, how many times had he come home stinking of sex with his-

 _Oh_. _Bucky_ had done this before. _James_ hadn’t. New things.

“That’s okay.” Steve cupped Bucky’s chin, guiding his face up. “I can lead.”

The tiniest smile darted over Bucky’s mouth and he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

“I’m going to kiss you,” Steve admitted, looking him in the eyes. “Punch me if you don’t want me to.”

Bucky didn’t punch him.

His lips were rough and chapped, and he met the kiss with too much teeth, but Steve didn’t care. When they were dancing, he didn’t mind Bucky stepping on his toes. He lead, easing Bucky into an easier pace. He held him tight, never wanting to let go, and kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him.

Bucky’s left hand didn’t move from his shoulder, but his right was everywhere. His hair, his back, his waist, his cheek, his chest, nowhere was safe.

Nowhere above the belt at least.

Steve groaned in frustration into the kiss, licking into his mouth fast and shameless. He reached back to grabbed Bucky’s hand, squeezing it hard before leading to down to his ass.

Bucky gasped softly, pulling away for the kiss. Steve froze, his eyes blinking open. Bucky looked like a startled animal, all wide eyes and muscles tensed to flee at any second.

“I-” he whispered, cheeks coloring a little. “Was that on purpose?”

For a moment Steve was silent, then he laughed. He kissed him, laughing into the kiss. This Bucky was so different. He seemed to be all sharpness and rough edges, but then when Steve least expected it he would do something like this, something so painfully sweet that it made the roots of his teeth ache.

“So on purpose,” he whispered between kisses.

He didn’t see Bucky’s smile, but he felt it against his lips. A hand slipped down under the layers of ripped petticoat, and Bucky snickered.

“Bloomers?”

“Thank our friend back in Manhattan.”

Bucky pulled away from the kiss, and Steve was about to whine in disappointment when lips sealed over his pulse point. Steve’s legs turned to jello; the only thing keeping him from falling flat on his back was Bucky’s hand kneading at his ass.

“I can’t decide if I want to punch him again or thank him,” Bucky admitted, his voice shaking just the tiniest bit.

Steve was sort of feeling the same way, honestly. Because the dress and the bloomers had been so degrading while in Giles’ arms, but with Bucky…

“You know, I really ought to repay you for helping me out back there. Getting me away from him and all,” he whispered, voice soft and sultry.

“Oh,” Bucky spluttered, voice going a little red. “Oh um, you don’t gotta…”

And there was that tiniest hint of his Brooklyn accent breaking out in his nervousness. It was all the encouragement Steve needed.

Now Bucky was the one whining as Steve kissed over his neck. He moved down to his clavicle and Bucky’s breath hitched in the most delicious way as he moved lower still. The four remaining buttons of his shirt made satisfying plunking sounds as they hit the floor and Bucky moaned, low and breathless, when Steve bit one perky nipple. God, Bucky’d never been scrawny, but a shameful part of Steve was thanking Zola for this chest.

He had to move away though, lower down, because he was repaying Bucky after all, and he planned on doing so with much enthusiasm and vigor.

“St-Stevie…” Bucky gasped as Steve tongued over the front of Bucky’s ruined slacks from his place knelt in front of him. Yep, there was definitely a bulge there, and it was looking like Steve wasn’t thanking Zola for just the chest…

“Yeah?” Steve smirked up at him, licking his lips like he was about to taste the most decadent treat in the world.

Bucky almost sobbed, his hips jittering forward. “Don’t… Oh God, _Stevie_ … Don’t stop.”

Steve’s heart soared. He didn’t say another word, letting the action of literally ripping Bucky’s pants open speak for itself.

He moaned wantonly when he saw Bucky’s cock, not even bothering to hide the whorish sound. It was big and thick and Steve’s mouth actually watered with desire.

Bucky whimpered, a tiny, helpless sound, when Steve sucked him into his mouth. Captain America may’ve been a virgin, but Steve Rogers was really just a simple man, and he sure as hell could suck dick.

He swirled his tongue around the crown, relishing the taste of pre. It was bitter, so bitter Steve wondered if Bucky still smoked (he hoped he didn’t, not being able to breathe was a bitch, he knew full well) but he let it linger on his tongue like fine wine, loving every nuance of the taste. Above him Bucky was making little choked whines, but they were muffled. Steve groaned around him when he glanced up and saw that he had jammed his metal fist into his mouth. Fuck, that was hot.

He closed his eyes and braced himself, then swallowed Bucky down to the root. The serum hadn’t taken his gag reflex, as nice as that would’ve been, but it had given him the wonderful ability to just… take it. He gagged around Bucky’s length, the hot wetness of his throat clenching, vicelike. His eyes watered and his throat stung, but he didn’t pull back for several minutes. He bobbed his head and breathed out of his nose when he could manage it, forcing the discomfort out of his mind.

He only stopped when Bucky forcibly yanked him away by his hair, looking equal parts turned on and worried.

“Stevie… that can’t be good for you.”

Steve stopped half straining against his grip to get back to his cock, surprising himself by shuddering all over. That wasn’t James, that was Bucky, _his_ Bucky, all barely-contained worry about Steve taking care of himself even now that he was virtually indestructible.

“Its alright,” he croaked, and damn he hoped his voice would still be this hoarse in the morning. “I like it.”

Bucky’s ears nearly glowed red and Steve watched a drop of pre roll down his shaft, but he shook his head. “I don’t. I don’t like hurting you.”

For a moment Steve knelt in front on him, silently studying the lines of his new familiar face, then his head dropped forward. He leaned his forehead against Bucky’s thigh, sighing. “Fuck,” he whispered. _I’m fairly certain in love with you, you overprotective idiot,_ he meant.

Bucky carded his hand through Steve’s short hair carefully, and Steve idly tried to remember what had happened to the wig… Had he thrown it at the guy with the flamethrower…? Maybe. He couldn’t remember and he didn’t care, because Bucky’s long, delicate fingers in his hair was the best thing ever and he was practically purring at the attention. Bucky was chuckling and smiling at him fondly, like one would to a content cat, and he felt like the center of a perfect universe.

“Hey.” Steve shivered happily at the soft, slightly gravelly voice. “You alright down there?”

“Yes,” Steve answered automatically, before he actually thought about it. “No. I’m not sure.”

He could practically hear Bucky’s frown. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s… it’s just a lot,” he admitted, leaning his head into Bucky’s hand.

For a moment Bucky was still and silent. Steve looked up just in time to see his solemn nod. He ran his thumb over Steve’s cheekbone, so tender it almost hurt. “I understand.”

Steve believed him.

After what could’ve been minutes or hours Bucky broke the silence, his voice soft. “Could we maybe… Bedroom?”

Steve blinked up at him, then grinned, nodding. He stood on shaky legs and, impulsively, grabbed Bucky’s left hand, linking his flesh fingers and Bucky’s metal ones together. Bucky started, glancing down at their entwined hands with wide eyes.

“Um… Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“...Still on purpose?”

Steve’s heart broke a little, and he squeezed Bucky’s hand hard. “ _Definitely_.”

Bucky was silent for a moment, then he squeezed back carefully, like he didn’t trust his hand not to break Steve’s.

Bucky walked to the door in the back, Steve trailing behind like a child’s balloon (feeling just as floaty and filled with helium). He pulled a key out of his pocket to unlock the bedroom door, and Steve realized that he was being allowed into his sanctum sanctorum.

The room was more than just spotless, it was empty. The walls were a dirty cream that matched the carpet, and a single tiny window allowed the grimy light of streetlamps filter over the twin size bed (it was really more of a cot) made with military neatness. Steve looked around the pitiful space, thinking of his own massive and lavious quarters in Stark Tower with its bed just the right mix of hard and soft for a soldier and the record player that Nat had given him.

Bucky glanced over, and his anxiousness slid into a smooth, unreadable mask when he saw the look on Steve’s face.

“Something wrong with it?” he asked in a cool, emotionless tone.

“No!” Steve said, too close to a shout. He turned to Bucky, instinctively wrapping him in a hug. “ _No_ ,” he whispered into his ear, hugging him to get that stiffness to go away, to make that mask leave his face, to put that Brooklyn accent back into his voice. “No, I get it.”

He understood this, taking away any luxuries as a form of self-punishment. His first apartment upon waking up from the ice had had one bedroom and no heat. After leaving the war for the people he loved to fight on their own, he felt he deserved even worse.

After a few moments, Bucky relaxed in his arms, pressing his face to his shoulder.

Steve smiled softly, kissing the top of his head and holding him tight, supporting his weight entirely.

“Bed?” Bucky’s voice was muffled and shy, so vulnerable. Steve fought down the ridiculous urge to sit on him at hiss and anyone who came close. He’d been spending too much time around Stark.

“Yeah. That sounds good,” he whispered, then laughed as Bucky started shuffle-pushing him backwards, not letting go or even looking up from his shoulder.

It was a good thing that the only thing to trip over in the room was the bed. He landed on his back and Bucky stripped off the last of his ruined clothing before he crawled up over him, kissing and sucking and pawing at the dress, making little desperate whines that went straight to Steve’s cock.

“ _Stevie_ …” He whimpered, his hands running over his more-run-than-nylon covered inner thighs.

“I’ve got you,” Steve whispered, stroking over his back. “I’ve got you, James.”

For all of his desperateness, Bucky was careful as he pulled off the remains of the dress. Charred and ripped and unwearable though it was, he folded it carefully and set it gently on the floor next to the bed. Steve squirmed under him, whining pitifully, as the same attention was paid to his slip and petticoat. Before Bucky could get to the nylons, bloomers and flats, however, Steve wrapped his legs around his waist, pushing his hips up and grinding against him hard and filthy.   
“ _James_ ,” he gasped, all needy breathlessness. “Please, stop teasing me.”

For a moment Bucky studied him, that same calculating look in his eyes that he used to get when he was aiming for a tricky shot. “Stop teasing?”

“ _Please_.”

A few more seconds, then Steve moaned at the sound of fabric ripping. One didn’t need super strength and a metal arm to rip the back of a pair of cotton bloomers open, but damn did it make it that much hotter.

Bucky’s hands slipped through the rip, cool metal and hot flesh creating a wonderful juxtaposition on the bare skin of his ass. “That a little better?” Bucky murmured in his ear, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

Steve sort of wished he didn’t heal quite so fast as he moaned out a breathy, “ _Yes_.”

Bucky snickered, the sound travelling down Steve’s spine like electricity. The tip of one metal finger teased over his entrance and Steve keened. Bucky drew in a sharp intake of breath, then leaned over the bed, fumbling at his slacks and coming up with a little tube of lube.

Steve frowned at the tube, tilting his head. A question rose up out of the fog of arousal. “Um… why was that in your pocket?”

Bucky smirked, pouring a liberal amount over his flesh fingers. “Fighting Giles for the information was Plan B.”

For a moment Steve was silent, then he started giggling. Actually _giggling_ , obviously the events of the night were starting to catch up to him. Bucky looked a insulted for a moment, then he started laughing as well, shaking his head.

“I _hate_ that guy,” Steve finally managed to choke out, eyes watering from laughing so hard.

“Same here, Jesus.” Bucky shook his head, eyes sparkling with something happy and good.

Steve’s breath hitched when a slick finger ran over his entrance. He’d been so caught up in just the comfort of that moment, in enjoying that look on Bucky’s face that made him want to snuggle him for the next five to ten years, that he’d forgotten they were actually having _sex_. He was having sex with his best friend, who may not have even recognized him.

He reached down, stilling the movement of Bucky’s hand. His face was serious and his voice was soft when he asked, “You sure you want this, James? You sure you want me to be the first? You sure you want this now?”

Bucky tilted his head, and Steve was glad to see he was actually thinking this over, rather than just rushing in head first, like he always had. (Though, admittedly, he was usually just following Steve’s lead.) “Yes,” he finally said, nodding. “Yes, this feels right. I want it to be now. I want it to be you, Stevie.”

Steve bit his lip, chest swelling. Bucky was giving him this, letting him be the first, letting him be the one he depended on. It was the greatest gift Steve had ever received. He nodded, then let his head fall back, spreading his legs wide for Bucky.  

“Are you…” Bucky still wasn’t moving, and his voice had that slight nervous pitch that he used to get when he’d broken something and didn’t want his ma to know. “Are you sure _you_ want _me_?”

Steve smiled up at him, reaching up to trace the shape of his face with his fingertips. He didn’t need to think about that one. “Oh yes. I always have.”

Bucky made a small choked sound then dived in, kissing Steve like it was all he could do. Steve gasped into the kiss as one finger breached him, but even desperate Bucky was so gentle with him, like he still weighed ninety pounds and couldn’t breathe and he could break at any second. Steve didn’t resent the gentleness, Captain America was indestructible, but sometimes Steve Rogers wanted to be treated like something precious and worth treating like glass.

Then there was a second finger, and Bucky brushed against that spot that made him feel like fire, and Steve couldn’t remember what gentle even meant. He rocked his hips up like an animal, whimpering into Bucky’s mouth.

“ _More_ ,” he gasped desperately. “Fuck. Fuck _more_ , James, _please_.”

Bucky growled into his mouth and fuck that was hot. That was so hot and then there were three fingers and Steve couldn’t breathe because it felt like he was made of pure, unadulterated _want_.

“Bu- Buc… _James_ ,” he stuttered out, brain just barely functioning enough to remember what name he was supposed to be using. “Fuck just… just fuck me.”

“No,” Bucky whispered against his lips, pulling his fingers away.

Steve nearly cried. He grasped at Bucky, fingernails digging into his back almost hard enough to break skin. _No_? Why no? What had Steve done? Was it the mistake with his name? “James,” he gasped out. “James please.”

“No,” Bucky repeated, voice colored with emotion and Brooklyn accent as thick as when he’d been at a pub all night, and Steve cried out sharply as the blunt head of his cock pushed into him. “I’m not gonna fuck you, Stevie. I wanna make love to you.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Steve whimpered, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s waist again, the heels of his flats digging into Bucky’s lower back. He forced Bucky in until he bottomed out, loving the stretch and blessing the serum for making him barely feel the slight discomfort that came with it.

For a moment they laid like that, intertwined, sharing air, then Bucky slowly rolled him hips. Steve gasped, back arching slightly, and Bucky grinned that Cheshire grin that was all the man he’d been in 1942.

As far as sex went, it wasn’t the most interesting Steve had ever had. Bucky moved a little too slow, was a little too concerned about hurting him, and they never strayed from plain ol’ missionary style, but as far as Steve was concerned it was perfect. Their breath mingled in the space between them, Bucky’s hair was plastered to his forehead, and sometimes something would be just a little off, like their noses bumping or a particularly embarrassing sound coming out of one of their mouths and the sexy, charged atmosphere would dissolve into laughter. It took nearly an hour and a half for Steve to get wound up enough to actually start lazily jacking off, and when he came it was less like fireworks than a comforting sizzle in the base of his stomach. When Bucky came it was with a groan of “ _Stevie_ ” and the feeling of being filled was satisfying in a way that wasn't really sexual.

They fell asleep in the space between breaths, in the breath between kisses, and for the first time since Steve had seen Bucky on that bridge, he didn’t dream of watching him fall.

* * *

 

Steve woke up the next day to the smell of of a fast food breakfast sandwich and the sight of a flash drive sitting on top of the pile of his clothes, sans one shoe. There was a note next to it in Bucky’s untidy scrawl.

_Steve,_

_Happy hunting_

_~B_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus:  
> "I'm never betting against an ex Soviet spy ever again," Tony griped, tugging on the skirt of the stupid maid outfit.  
> "I think they looks quite fetching!" Thor boomed from where he was cleaning out the toxic mold that was growing in the refrigerator."  
> "Oh yeah," Clint smirked, balanced precariously on the tv to dust the fan, which kept snowing on people when it was turned on. "I think we make it hot."  
> "Hulk doesn't like dresses," Hulk chimed in. Tony had honestly been impressed she'd managed to find one that big...  
> "How did she even guess Rogers'd get laid, but not by the French asshole?" Tony grumbled at the broom.  
> "Because he looked damn good, but he also has taste," Nat's soft voice quipped, and they all snapped to attention. "Tony, you missed a spot."  
> "Damn communist..." Tony muttered, glaring at the floor and sweeping with extra effort.


End file.
